


the new york city gotham golem will save america

by theladyscribe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Metropolis (1927), Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:02:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bucky enlisted in the Army. He shipped out for basic training two days ago." The robot's voice is tinny, like all robots, but Abraham thinks it sounds emptier than usual. It is probably just that he is used to hearing it banter back and forth with Barnes, and the loss of the young man's constant chatter makes the robot's voice echo in a way he hasn't noticed before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the new york city gotham golem will save america

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy/gifts).



> This is a story that I had big intentions for but which never got off the ground. Rather than letting all of it languish in my WIPs folder, I'm posting this part of it here, where it might at least get some love. Though technically incomplete, this section stands on its own.
> 
> Title is from a piece of artwork that was on display at MOMA PS1.

The robot comes to his shop on its own to ask for repairs. This is not a strange occurrence in and of itself—many families send their robots to run errands or to be repaired without an escort—but Abraham has never seen the little SR-18 without the Barnes boy either leading it or (more often than not) following it.

"Can I help you?" Abraham asks, looking the robot up and down. It doesn't seem to be damaged, not like the last time he worked on it, its jaw unhinged and one eye with its metal lids jammed shut.

"I broke my hand," the robot says, holding out its fist. It looks like a minor breakage, most likely a sheared joint or a broken tooth in a gear, an easy fix that Abraham rarely does these days, since most people are more than capable of small repairs themselves.

"Young Mr. Barnes couldn't fix it?" Abraham asks even as he pulls out his toolkit, gesturing for the little robot to take a seat.

"Bucky enlisted in the Army. He shipped out for basic training two days ago." The robot's voice is tinny, like all robots, but Abraham thinks it sounds emptier than usual. It is probably just that he is used to hearing it banter back and forth with Barnes, and the loss of the young man's constant chatter makes the robot's voice echo in a way he hasn't noticed before.

Abraham sits down and takes the robot's wrist, pulling it toward him so he can open up the metal casing around its hand. The screws are nearly stripped, probably from constant home repairs, and he silently sets them in a dish where they will conveniently mix with new ones. He's sure the robot notices, but it doesn't say anything. Practicality and efficiency will win out over any semblance of pride in a robot, though Abraham has no doubt Mrs. Barnes will send over a noodle kugel in thanks.

He carefully pulls up the plates covering the robot's fingers, frowning as he gets a good look at the inner workings. The joints have been jerry-rigged—repeatedly, judging by the different-colored and -sized bands carefully threaded along the robot's metal fingers. Abraham can see the tell-tale scarring of a fracture that's been fused together by solder. It's consistent with the sorts of fractures he's seen on boxer-bots, and if he didn't know the Barnes family so well, he'd wonder what sort of things young Mr. Barnes involved the family robot in.

Still, he passes the old fixes by in favor of focusing on the reason the SR-18 came to see him. Its pointer and index fingers have jammed badly enough that the little robot can't fully extend them, and once Abraham gets the last of the plates out of the way, he can see why. Whatever the bot hit—a wall, another robot, a person (God forbid)—pushed the finger-rods into each other hard enough to break them. The damage is startling; the speed with which a robot would have to strike to do this is unfathomable.

"What caused this?" Abraham asks, more to fill up the silence than anything.

"I hit a wall." There's no emotion in the robot's voice, but then there wouldn't be.

"Why?" He glances up in time to see the robot give a shrug of its shoulders.

"Bucky shipped out for basic training two days ago."

It's a strange answer from a robot; really, it's a non-answer, the sort of thing Abraham would expect from a petulant youth, not a family 'bot. It's clear he won't give any more explanation, so Abraham lets the shop lapse back into silence as he oils up the finger-rods in hopes of pulling the pieces out without further damage. The process proves futile, the rods falling apart as he pulls them from the casing. The robot watches, emotionless as ever.

"I'm not sure I have the parts to replace these rods," Abraham says as he sets the last one on his tray.

"Will you have to order them?" the robot asks.

Abraham sighs. "I'm not sure they still make parts for SR-18s," he admits. "I might be able to get them from the junkyard or a pawn shop, but old robots are being recycled as scrap for the war effort."

The robot nods. "Of course. The war effort is more important."

The tone is strangely decisive for a robot, and Abraham wonders how much of its attitude has been picked up from young Mr. Barnes.

"I'll see what I can do," Abraham says. "For now—" He turns around to rummage through his desk, pulling out an articulated hand prototype he's been tinkering with. "We'll see if it fits."


End file.
